Dreamer's Pool (15 page)

12

~ORAN~

‘G
ive her time,’ Donagan said. ‘She’s young, she’s far from home, the circumstances of her arrival were unfortunate. This is a girl of eighteen, Oran, not a seasoned traveller.’

Donagan was helping me get ready for bed. This was part of the regular duties of a body servant. Since I was an adult man and perfectly capable of taking off my clothes and putting on a nightshirt unassisted, we were doing what we usually did at this hour: sitting in my bedchamber sharing a jug of mead and talking. Or rather, I had been talking and my companion had been listening, until now.

‘But she won’t even see me,’ I said. I understood his argument; I had already made allowances for Flidais’s distress, her exhaustion, perhaps a sudden attack of homesickness. ‘She’s been shut up in her quarters since she first got here. Two whole days. I should be helping her recover, comforting her, reassuring her. We’re to be married, after all. She’s barely spoken to me.’

‘After what happened to her maidservant, you should be glad she did not say she wanted to go straight back home.’ Donagan was looking at Flidais’s portrait; her image gazed back at him, eyes full of love and sweetness. I had been startled, when I’d first seen her in the flesh, how like she was to that picture. It had all been there: the perfect heart shape of the face, the deep blue of the eyes, the delicate mouth and neat straight nose. It had all been there but the look of love. Instead, her face had worn a wary expression, as if she were trying to take my measure. Perhaps I did not live up to her expectations. Perhaps she thought me ugly or weak-looking, too tall, too short, too soft, too . . .

This was foolish. What had I been hoping for? I could not say, save that after our letters, I had not anticipated that she would be so . . . cool. Even allowing for the unfortunate circumstances, I had thought she might summon a smile, not the conventional smile of a formal greeting, but a special smile just for me. I had thought, when later I gave her the poem I had written for her arrival, that she would read it straight away, not pass it to one of her waiting women with scarcely a glance. I had not expected that she would shut herself away from me as if she were thinking better of her choice.

‘She’ll be fine by the betrothal ceremony,’ Donagan said. ‘I’m sure of it. Women have these ups and downs, Oran. They’re creatures of a hundred moods.’

‘But the letters. The confidences, the poetry . . .’ I made myself stop. Donagan had not read any of the letters, either mine to Flidais or hers to me, and I had no intention of sharing them with him or indeed anyone. They were private; secret; a precious bond between my sweetheart and me. I believed in the letters. I believed in true love, the kind from ancient tales. If I said this to Donagan, he would call me a child. ‘Perhaps she is hiding from me,’ I mused. ‘Perhaps she cannot bear to face the truth.’

Donagan gave me one of his looks. ‘What truth?’

I grimaced. ‘That she doesn’t love me after all? That she finds herself obliged to wed a man who disgusts her?’

‘Your thoughts are leading you into a maze that’s entirely of your own invention, my friend. I suggest you drink a lot of mead, then have a good night’s sleep. Who knows, the lady may be in quite a different mood tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that.’ When I failed to reply, he went on, ‘You’re spending too much time fretting over this. If you want my advice, you’ll leave Lady Flidais and her women to their own devices and turn your attention elsewhere. Has it escaped you that your mother and father will be here in a few days? Winterfalls will be full to the brim with folk. Tomorrow might be a good day to call your household together and rally them with a few uplifting remarks. Afterwards you might make a personal tour of inspection: the accommodation for the king and queen, the sleeping quarters for their serving folk, the stables . . . If you wish, I can draw up an itinerary.’

‘I believe I might just manage to retain that in my mind.’ Hearing how this sounded, I added, ‘I’m sorry, Donagan. I am somewhat on edge, I admit it. Navigating uncharted waters.’

‘You will find your way even without a map,’ Donagan said with a smile. ‘Most men do.’

When he was gone I sat by lamplight with parchment, ink and pen before me and Flidais’s picture on the wall, looking down on me. I had thought to craft a new poem for my beloved, capturing my love for her, my uncertainty, my hope. But I could not write. The words that should have poured forth from my heart were silent. I was mute; the river of my imagination had turned dry as dust. I sat a long while, knowing that Donagan’s advice was wise and sensible, recognising that all I needed to do was give Flidais time.

In the end I did write, but not to my beloved.

To Eabha, Queen of Dalriada

Mother, greetings. Lady Flidais has arrived safely at Winterfalls and is recovering from her long journey. Indeed, I have seen very little of her since she came here, as she is still too exhausted to leave her private quarters. I have ensured that her party is being well looked after in every respect.

On the journey to Winterfalls, Flidais witnessed the accidental death of a member of her party. She was seriously distressed by this unfortunate event, and this has contributed to her current state of nervous collapse.

I write to advise you of this since, if Flidais is not fully restored to herself within the next few days, I believe it may be wise to delay the formal betrothal. I understand the difficulties this would present, and I hope it will not be necessary.

I will send a message immediately if the arrangements change. Otherwise I will expect you and Father and your party in seven days, as planned.

Your obedient son

Oran, Prince of Dalriada

I sealed the letter without reading it over. I imagined Mother opening it. I imagined her irritation when she saw that I had not done as a prince should and had a scribe write it for me. I thought of her displeasure at the inconvenience – and it would indeed be inconvenient, with my father’s responsibilities at Cahercorcan. Perhaps there would be no need to send it. Maybe by morning Flidais would be restored to health, and able to walk or ride out with me, so I could show her and Bramble the places I had described in my letters. If not that, she might at least be well enough to sit with me in my library. I could read to her. I could give her the betrothal gift I had chosen with such care.

I lay awake, pondering the tumult of emotions that had coursed through me since my beloved’s arrival, and thinking that too great a fondness for old tales had perhaps addled my wits. What had I expected, that she would throw herself into my arms? Speak words of love before a whole crowd of folk? Had I imagined she would address me with the same fluency she’d shown in her letters, even after her exhausting journey and the shocking death of her maidservant? Flidais was a flesh and blood woman, not some princess from ancient myth. I’d been thinking like a child, and a selfish child at that.

Tomorrow I would do as Donagan had suggested. I would call my household together and tell them how proud I was of the fine work everyone had done in preparing Winterfalls for this change. I would run through what was expected for the visit of my parents and their substantial entourage. Then I would talk to Aedan about the plans to include the local community in the betrothal celebrations; I would make sure the folk of the village and farms had been consulted.

But before I did any of that, I would go to Flidais’s quarters and speak with her. Exactly what I would say, I was not sure. I must hope that, when the time came, the right words would come with it.

I slept fitfully and woke with an aching head. So much for Donagan’s theory about the mead. I could not possibly visit Flidais at this hour. The light beyond my window was the earliest pale wash of dawn. But I would be unable to settle to anything else until I spoke with her.

My bedchamber had several doors. One to the hallway; one to the small chamber next door where Donagan slept within easy reach. A third door connected my chamber directly with Flidais’s bedroom in the women’s quarters. That door had remained firmly closed since her arrival at Winterfalls, and would do so until we were hand-fasted.

I’d had the women’s quarters expanded and fitted out with all the comforts a high-born lady would expect, along with some additions of my own devising, such as a little chamber with a writing desk. When Flidais sat there she could look through a round window into a patch of garden planted with many of the flowers she had described in her letters. There was a strip of lawn for Bramble to roll on and a little door through which the dog could come in and out of the house unaided. I had seen nothing of Bramble since that first, awkward day.

I threw on some clothes and slipped out without waking Donagan. Folk were stirring. Sounds came to me from the kitchen, where they would be kindling cooking fires and preparing for the day’s work. I went outside; a walk would clear my head.

The royal holding at Winterfalls was substantial and well maintained. While I was growing up, my family had usually stayed here over the summer, and I wondered, thinking back, whether my mother had enjoyed those respites from the formality of Cahercorcan as much as I had. The place had been in capable hands then, and it still was. My steward, Aedan, and his wife, Fíona, had been here as long as I could remember. Their children were of an age with me. My stable master, Eochu, could be abrasive when displeased, but had such a remarkable touch with horses that nobody ever said a word against him. Eochu went everywhere accompanied by his dogs, a pair of brindled lurchers who were the loves of his life, though nobody else thought much of them. Then there was Niall, who tended to the Winterfalls acreage, its fine breeding cattle and its crops, with assistance from a small army of folk and a team of well-trained herding dogs.

My lands extended far beyond the walls of the home acreage, of course; several villages, the small farms around them, Dreamer’s Wood and the wild lands beyond were all part of my holding, and under Dalriadan law there was a give and take requirement between my tenants and me. I provided assistance as required; I helped them in times of flood, fire or other hardship and I arbitrated over their disputes at a monthly open council. The people had been accustomed to my riding down from Cahercorcan for these councils, staying a day or two, then riding home again. Now that I was established here permanently, the whole thing was much easier, since folk could reach me quickly if they needed me.

In the presence of my father and his councillors I had always felt I was only playing at being a prince; that people regarded me as a pale shadow of my father. My visits to Winterfalls for the councils had felt like a sham, though I had done my best to find just and fair solutions to the problems my people brought before me and they had generally seemed satisfied. Now I could be out among them, seeing the problems for myself, perhaps helping resolve them before there was any need for a formal hearing. I could meet folk as soon as they moved into the district, like that fellow Grim, the ill-tempered thatcher. I had yet to meet the healer, Blackthorn, who had opened her house to Flidais on the day of the unfortunate accident at Dreamer’s Pool. That day, my mind had been all on bringing my beloved safely home. And, of course, arranging a burial for the girl who’d drowned. A sad arrival and a sadder farewell. Flidais had been too distraught to attend the ritual we’d held for her maid.

We had a burial ground beyond our grazing land, and we’d interred the girl there. It was in a quiet area near a copse of elders. I walked to the spot now, thinking to say a silent prayer or two. It was a sad thing to die so far from home and be laid to rest in a place your loved ones would likely never visit.

I sat awhile among the graves as the sun came up and the cows stirred themselves, moving at a leisurely pace toward the barn for the morning milking. I said a prayer for the departed – not only the girl who had drowned, but the others who lay nearby, folk who had lived and died at Winterfalls in the service of our family. I practised a skill taught to me a year or two ago by a wandering druid: sitting with my eyes closed, concentrating on sounds, finding music in the way they fitted together. So many sounds. The lowing of the cattle, the singing of birds – chirping, calling, crying, warbling – and the whisper and rustle of their movement in the trees. The flowing of the stream, which was many voices in one. Eochu over by the stables calling his dogs, and one of them barking. And . . . something else, a whimpering, as of some creature in distress. Eyes still closed, I made myself concentrate as I’d been taught, and when I opened them there was Bramble, hunkered down on the other side of the girl’s grave, her coat all stuck with whinnies and burrs. There was blood on the little dog’s face.

I was careful not to make any sudden movement. ‘Bramble,’ I said in a murmur. ‘It’s all right. Good dog.’ If I startled the creature now, she might bolt. Far from all she knew, on open ground, it would be near-impossible to find her. Flidais would be devastated. ‘Friend,’ I said. ‘I’m a friend. I hope your mistress explained that.’

Bramble stayed where she was, big eyes on me. She was shivering with some violence. I kept talking, low-voiced, speaking of matters that might interest a dog, such as a warm fire to lie in front of, a meaty bone, a cosy basket. I mentioned Flidais, who would be missing her little companion. I kept this up awhile, all the time edging gradually closer and hoping nobody would come looking for me and frighten the little one away. And after a certain time, much to my astonishment, for I had been sure that I would eventually have to resort to a sudden snatch, Bramble crept forward, the ghost of a whimper emerging from her throat, until she was right beside me.

I found that I was smiling for the first time in days. Slowly I reached out a hand, holding it where the dog could sniff, and she touched my fingers with her cold nose. She was exactly as portrayed in the painting, where she had been cradled in Flidais’s arms: a delicately made thing, her eyes and ears rather too large for the rest of her, her body somewhat spindly. Her long whippy tail was cautiously wagging now. Her hair was as fine as thistledown and tangled with debris. I did not gather her up; not yet.